My Favourite Store.

Photo by Antonio Shkabra from Pexels

Here I was with my mother at the Perth Arican Hair Salon. It was smaller than imagined

but it still looked impressive. Usually, my amateur mother braided my thick hair, but I had an

event the week after, so we decided to have someone more experienced style my hair which

was very exciting.

We entered the salon and were instantly welcomed by a diversity of African people, from

young to old, male to female and thin to heavy, all chattering loudly in different languages

and Pidgin English. Noisy banters back and forth and cheery laughter of people who have

something in common, bring the place to life. The television was blaring with Nigerian

artist’s, Flavour’s, song, ‘Time to Party’ on repeat. Little kids kept themselves occupied with

their parents’ phones as they stayed entranced by the colourful rays that leapt from the

devices.

The place was buzzing: bright lights radiated throughout the store, black leather seats, a

variety of braids up for purchase and reflecting mirrors from every corner. The face behind

the salon came up to me and asked me what I wanted to do. I told her that I wanted box

braids and I pointed at the orange one of her many packs of synthetic hair on display. I was so thrilled because I had never dared to put anything that colourful on my head, ever.

My mother wholeheartedly approved of my interesting choice. The owner led me to a chair

and brought out the blow-dryer. The heat was screaming at the back of my neck as she blew

through my curls and combed it straight. I could feel my head throbbing and I felt like my

head was slowly ripping off. She stopped and told me that my hair was massively thick at

which I smiled in return. She called her husband to take over. I seriously thought that I would

be bald by the time he had finished; the comb was hanging onto my head for dear life. All my

curls had been painfully straightened out and she was ready to braid it. I held the synthetic

weave for her, and it felt itchy in my hands.

As she was working on my hair, she was speaking in her mother tongue to her co-workers,

and they started laughing. Even today, I still wonder what they were happily chatting about.

When the braiding got too painful, I would just escape through the constantly erupting

laughter. The ‘Time to Party’ song faded away and the multicultural gossip that I wished I

could understand made me realise that I would come back again.